


What We Lost in the Mountains

by forgetmenotjimmy



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Best Friends, Break Up, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e06 Rare Species, F/M, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Needs a Hug, Grief/Mourning, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:29:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22231093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgetmenotjimmy/pseuds/forgetmenotjimmy
Summary: Jaskier’s face hovered in his mind’s eye. The image wouldn’t leave him; his friend’s face slack with surprise, mouth open in a silent scream. Over and over Jaskier fell from the chain and was swallowed by the hungry abyss.Geralt spends a night trying to cope with a world where his friend is dead.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 21
Kudos: 358





	What We Lost in the Mountains

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the Netflix show but I have used a smidgen of book lore.  
> Unbeta'd so let me know if you see anything.  
> :D

Jaskier’s face hovered in his mind’s eye. The image wouldn’t leave him; his friend’s face slack with surprise, mouth open in a silent scream. Over and over Jaskier fell from the chain and was swallowed by the hungry abyss. No, not fell, was dragged.

Rage burned dark and hot in Geralt’s belly as he walked stiffly behind the dwarves. Why? Why had Borch done it? Geralt could have pulled them up, saved them; but the enigmatic old man had denied him the chance.

They’d been shuffling along the planks around the cliff face; everyone nervous though only Jaskier had been giving himself a pep talk, muttering encouragements in the third person. Geralt was feeling uneasy himself, not trusting his substantial weight on a contraption built for dwarves.

Still, needs must. Geralt had let Yennefer go first, with Jaskier just behind him – that way he could grab either of them if something went wrong. But Geralt hadn’t imagined that when the boards snapped, they would toss four people onto their bellies, hands grasping the chain desperately.

Geralt had cried out, whole body straining from the effort of holding them all up. The boards creaked and Jaskier panted in fear.

“Geralt!” His knuckles were white, arms trembling.

“Hold on!” Geralt had growled even as the chain swung and the planks snapped again.

“Geralt! The planks wouldn’t hold!” Yennefer had cried, reminding Geralt of her existence.

“Do something!” He ordered as he saw Borch had climbed up so he was within reach of Jaskier’s foot. Yennefer cursed as she struggled to reposition herself without letting go of the chain but all of Geralt’s attention was on Jaskier. He was terrified, more so than Geralt had ever seen him. What’s more: Geralt was starting to feel panic claw up his throat. All he could do was hold on.

“Witcher!” Borch shouted. “We’ll meet you at the end!” Then, before anyone could react, he grabbed Jaskier’s foot and let go of the chain. His sudden weight made Jaskier’s hands slide down the chain, which clinked loudly.

“NO!” Geralt burst out. Jaskier met his gaze for a split second before his arms gave out and they all fell. Desperately, Geralt pulled on the now feather-light chain. “No. He muttered to himself. Head snapping to Yennefer, he demanded. “Save them!”

Her hand was outstretched but her features were scrunched in defeat.

“I lost the connection, I’m sorry.” She whispered. Geralt stared at her, frozen in place. Then rage rushed in.

“What? You can still save them!”

Her lip trembled ever so slightly and he had to look away from her eyes: so soft with pity and apology. “Geralt.”

Grunting in frustration, Geralt looked down at the hand still holding the limp chain. His eyes followed the line down to where it disappeared into the mist. A lump grew in his throat.

“I’m sorry.” Yennefer insisted. Geralt squeezed his eyes shut. After a long moment, he released the chain.

…

Jaskier supposed he should be grateful for a fairly quick and painless death. A long fall, an abrupt smack onto the ground and then he’d know no more. After following Geralt around for more than a decade, he’d heard about or witnessed just about every horrible death there was. A fall from a mountain was nothing.

Actually falling though, seeing Geralt vanish as Jaskier fell through the mist was freaking terrifying. His throat was too tight to scream but he flailed, scrabbling the air. Borch’s weight disappeared and Jaskier’s body rotated upwards slightly. Absurdly, his heart twinged at the mental image of his lute smashing on the ground. It was getting hard to breathe, the relentless wind biting his face and neck, pressing on his chest. Who would warn Geralt about Yennefer’s evilness now? He thought as his eyes slid shut and a roar chased him into darkness.

…

Yennefer told the dwarves what happened when they finally made it across the planks. Geralt didn’t think he could speak even if he wanted to. Usually it didn’t matter if he was silent. If anything needed to be said, Jaskier said it for him. It was often long-winded, embellished and mildly embarrassing, but Geralt didn’t often correct the bard’s words.

When they were alone, Jaskier could have entire conversations with himself and sometimes Roach. From the beginning he’d seemed to understand Geralt’s grunts and hums, never taking offence if his questions or general nattering went unanswered, nor if Geralt grumbled for him to shut up. Proving his keen observation skills, he’d also learned quickly when Geralt was telling him to be quiet because he was annoyed and when it was vital for their survival – not that Geralt often let the bard get close enough to the monster of the week.

The dwarves offered their condolences but Geralt barely heard them. He ignored Yennefer’s nervous glances and followed the dwarves until they stopped for the night. Busy work often helped focus his mind; thoughts ordering themselves as his hands worked. Now he didn’t really register what he was doing and had to retie the knot on his bag three times before he did it right. Coming back to himself, he saw that Yennefer had retreated into her tent and the dwarves were still setting up their camp. Helplessly, he walked a little way away and sat on a rock looking out over the mountains.

He’d known this day had been coming. Ever since he’d realised that he couldn’t scare the bard away and worse, he didn’t mind the other man’s company; he’d known that it was most likely that he would outlive the human. It was just a fact of life – how things worked. Although he hadn’t obsessed over the idea or wrung his hands, it had been there in the back of his mind.

Still, he wasn’t prepared. Gritting his jaw, he fought against the waves of rage that crashed over him. It wasn’t fair. He’d still been young, he’d still had many years to live, adventures to have, hearts to break, songs to sing…songs to write.

Geralt tried not to concern himself with frivolous things like art and beauty, they couldn’t help him fight wargs or kikimores. Despite himself though, he found Jaskier’s songs…pleasing. The witcher had occasionally been stuck with one of them playing over and over in his head – though wild horses would never drag that out of him.

So he would tease Jaskier all day long about his ‘filling less pie’ singing or inaccurate songs, but by the gods, he’d never wanted his friend to stop singing. The lump in his throat grew and he forced himself to focus on the view; the world around him.

A pair of swallows danced over the trees, too far away for him to hear their calls. The gentle wind swayed the sparse trees and rustled the fallen leaves; the mist obscured the far away peaks, their edges softened by the white and grey. All was peaceful. Jaskier would have said something about the glorious beauty of Nature, maybe would have contrasted the tranquillity of the view with the brutal violence of the task. Probably would have wandered off and encountered another dangerous animal he wanted to adopt, or gone to entertain the dwarves with vulgar songs, proving he could charm almost anyone.

Geralt closed his eyes, breathing in sharply. _This is the way of things_. People are born, they live, they die. If he wanted to be hopeful, he could consider that part of Jaskier would live on through his songs; his words, his ideas, his essence would survive. Just as Borch said: there are other ways to endure. Maybe whenever Geralt would hear someone else singing one of Jaskier’s songs, it would be like Jaskier was still living, somewhere out in the world.

But Geralt didn’t want to be hopeful. He wanted to go back a few hours and insist they turn back. He wanted to go back a few days and refuse to join Borch’s team. He wanted to scream and howl like a dying bruxa. He wanted to cry.

…

The sun was low in the sky when Jaskier snorted awake. Wincing at the coarse sand scraping against his cheek, he sat up and wiped it off clumsily. He blinked, seeing shrubs, rocks, the mouth of a cave and a nice view from what he could see with the sun so low. Where…what? He choked and clambered to his feet as he remembered: the cliff, the planks, dangling from the chain, Geralt’s face as Jaskier fell, as he was pulled?

Staggering a little, he picked up his lute which had been laid beside him and tiptoed into the cave. His heart stopped. A huge, gold dragon stared back at him. He yelped and cowered behind his lute, wishing desperately that Geralt was there.

“Whoa! Nice dragon.” He stammered.

“Hello, bard.” Borch’s voice sounded in his head. Devilishly confused, Jaskier looked around without moving his head. There didn’t seem to be anyone else there. Hmmm…. Geralt said that gold dragons didn’t exist…

“Am I dead?” Jaskier asked the mythical creature, heart still hammering in his chest. Borch chuckled…still in Jaskier’s head.

“No. I transformed and saved you.”

“Right.” Jaskier muttered after a short pause. “Téa and Véa?”

“They are also fine, just out guarding the perimeter. Not that we expect anyone before dawn.” Still not completely sure he wasn’t experiencing some fever dream, Jaskier managed to tear his gaze away from the dragon and hesitated. There was another dragon further in... green and dead? His heart ached. There was an egg, glowing slightly as if lit by a fire within. Jaskier guessed that there probably was.

Heart finally calmed, Jaskier said. “Geralt. I should go find him.” His lips twitched. “Might make _his_ jaw drop for a change.” He turned, with a mind to wander aimlessly until his feet took him to Geralt – as they always seemed to do.

“You won’t reach him before dark.” Borch warned. Jaskier stopped, knowing he was right even as he cursed.

He knew how devastated he’d be if he thought Geralt was dead – Hell, he’d thought it before in Rinde. The witcher didn’t feel exactly the same way as Jaskier did but Jaskier still didn’t like the idea of letting Geralt be upset for a night. He might do something boneheaded. For all that Geralt liked to point out Jaskier’s idiotic moves, he also had his fair share of easily avoidable scrapes. Just because he could swiftly and bloodily extricate himself didn’t negate that.

Well, the top of a mountain didn’t offer much opportunity for stupidity. The stupidest thing they’d done was coming. Now Geralt would have to defend a dragon’s egg against the Reavers and the dwarves…and the mage.

Jaskier’s jaw twitched and he turned back to the dragons. Who was he kidding? Geralt would be fine. Any pain caused by losing one’s bard would be quickly soothed, clasped to that ample breast…even if it was covering a cold and cruel heart.

Borch was sitting next to the body of the green dragon. Jaskier couldn’t tell his expression but from the posture and context… Jaskier came a little closer before settling down his lute and propping himself up against a handy rock.

“What was her name?” 

“Myrgtabrakke.” Borch answered after a moment, blinking as if he’d forgotten Jaskier was there.

“Were you close?”

“Dragons are solitary creatures by nature but we meet occasionally.” An expert in reading between lines from reticent bastards, Jaskier didn’t press. He knew how much he could get away with Geralt before courting bodily harm but Borch was a dragon, no use risking it.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Borch inclined his head and they sat in silence until Téa and Véa returned. They formed a rough game plan for the dawn: Jaskier as lookout, Téa and Véa as the muscle, Borch as the final defence.

“Should I do a bird call when I see someone?” Jaskier asked excitedly. Geralt hardly ever allowed him to get involved in his work beyond looking after Roach. Téa looked at him strangely but he thought he saw Véa’s eyes gleam with amusement.

“Just think loudly. I’ll hear you.” Borch explained.

“Like this?” Jaskier shouted in his head.

“Yes.” Borch replied and Jaskier just nodded. That was the least surprising thing he’d learned all day. Exhausted, he curled up in a corner and slept deeply; dreaming of Geralt sculpting a monument to him out of marble.

…

Geralt didn’t know why he went into Yennefer’s tent. He felt all of his countless years, a bone-deep exhaustion that made his whole body ache. Sleep. That’s what he wanted. Usually being with Yennefer meant a goodnight’s rest even if the morning brought heartbreak. Jaskier had once told Geralt that he smelled of heartbreak.

Shaking away the memory, he pulled away from Yennefer’s kiss.

“You didn’t come for this?” She asked – all previous regret and guilt apparently dried up.

“I don’t like the silence.” Geralt admitted slowly. He saw a flash of sympathy before her face stilled again. She stepped back and continued undressing.

“Get onto the bed. I’ll recite The History of Herb Use: it’ll put you right to sleep.” Unbearably grateful, Geralt obeyed, carefully folding his clothes on a chair. Once settled under the covers, he didn’t protest as Yennefer leant his head on her shoulder, running her hands through his hair. She told him about Aratuza and some of the things she learnt there, some of the more entertaining stories from Aedirn’s court. Soon her words all slurred together like gentle waves washing over him.

“I want to look for his body in the morning.” Belatedly, Geralt realised that he had spoken. Yennefer didn’t say anything for a long moment. Geralt pulled away and sat up, looking at her. He grit his jaw as he read her expression. “You still want to kill the dragon.”

She tilted her chin up. “Yes.” He huffed and turned away slightly as she continued. “I haven’t given up my desires just because you disapprove. Besides, if we leave now then your bard will have died for nothing.”

Geralt stared at her for a moment. Then he got out of the bed and redressed, hands shaking.

“Geralt.” She called, exasperated. He didn’t answer. “Geralt.” She stood before him in her small clothes, blocking his way out. “That was h-”

“I only agreed to come because of you.” He interrupted her flatly. “Because I hated seeing you with that green idiot. Because I wanted to be near you.” Her eyes were wide as they searched his face. Numb, he went on. “Jaskier told me I was making a mistake, that coming wouldn’t change anything and he was right. You’re selfish; hurting people, tearing the world apart to fulfil your desire.” He swallowed, stepping past her. “And so am I.”

“Geralt, wait-”

He didn’t.

…

Using his enhanced senses, Geralt left the camp an hour before the sun rose. As much as he wanted to leave the mountain and never return, he decided to try and convince the dragon to leave, warn it at least. Jaskier hated death, hated sadness; another dragon dying was a great sorrow for the world.

Part of him reasoned that if he could save the dragon then maybe Jaskier’s death wouldn’t have been in vain. A larger part of him knew that was wishful thinking, but hey, it was worth a shot. He’d descend after it was all over and try to find what was left of the body. He reached the cave just before dawn and sniffed. Under the dragon scent was the smell of humans. Geralt hurried forward, drawing his sword.

Fire blast out above him, illuminating the cave – the occupants stirring.

“Witcher.” Borch’s voice sounded in his head. “We meet again.” Blinking away the spots in his eyes from the bright light, Geralt vaguely felt the grip on his sword go slack as he saw two unbelievable things: a gold dragon and Jaskier, alive. Geralt’s mind broke and he didn’t say anything as Téa and Véa stalked closer, their own swords drawn.

“Whoa! Wait! Why don’t we all put our pointy things down?” Jaskier suggested. Geralt sheathed his sword, registering that the warrior women also lowered theirs, but most of his attention was on Jaskier.

Now beaming, his hair ruffled and clothes dusty, Jaskier approached Geralt. “Can you believe that Borch is a dragon? And a gold one! Now I know it’s rare for you to be wrong about something so I must say this is a great day for me and if you don’t think I won’t bring this up all the time then-”

His words cut off into a little meep as Geralt pulled him into a bear hug. Geralt’s eyes drifted closed as he breathed in Jaskier’s familiar scent, felt his slight, warm body against his. As his mind accepted this new reality, relief rolled over him, weakening his knees slightly. After Jaskier’s surprise had subsided, Geralt felt him relax and bring his hands up to Geralt’s back.

“I missed you too.” Jaskier murmured. Swallowing harshly, Geralt forced himself to let go and step back. Jaskier looked up at him, grey eyes soft in understanding. Then Jaskier glanced at Borch who had approached them.

“They’ll be here soon.”

“Ah yes,” Jaskier declared. “I’ll go to my post. I’m going to be a look out.” He informed Geralt proudly. Pushing down the warmth he felt at that enthusiasm, Geralt went into battle mode.

“Leave Yennefer to me.” Jaskier nodded, expression hardening a little, scooping up his lute on his way out of the cave. Geralt looked around and finally noticed the green dragon was dead and…there was an egg.

“I’ll protect the egg.” Borch told him. Geralt inclined his head, getting an idea.

…

Once Yennefer had been told that dragon had died protecting her child, she was on their side and together they killed all the Reavers. Borch changed back into a human and gave some of the green dragon’s teeth to the dwarves, merely smiling when asked how he’d survived the fall.

“Bard.” Yennefer greeted when Jaskier clambered down from his vantage point. “I see you live to sing another day.”

“Yennefer. Good to see you too.” He didn’t sound as antagonistic as usual, Geralt thought. Although the danger had passed, Geralt felt a twinge of anxiety as he watched Jaskier go over to the dwarves, notebook ready. Geralt forced himself to turn away to sit with Borch and Yennefer, not to hover like a mother hen.

He later regretted it when Borch revealed his wish and Yennefer left. The black pit of dread which had opened inside him when Yennefer had left for the first time finally closed, leaving an ache behind. Borch told him to find his child surprise and left him alone. Black waves of hurt roiled and foamed inside as he fought not to take his rage and despair out on the scenery.

After some amount of time, he heard Jaskier calling his name. A terrible idea presented itself: technically, both of his biggest problems he had in his life were because of Jaskier. Geralt spun around, lips parted to unleash a scathing attack but his jaw snapped shut. The image of his friend falling pushed its way to his inner eye, along with the crushing sensation in his heart as he’d watched it happen helplessly.

He sighed heavily.

“If we want to head back with the dwarves, we need to go now.” Jaskier spoke, half-urgently, half-hesitantly. Geralt hummed and collected his things, stalking over to the others. Jaskier followed silently for a minute before suggesting hopefully. “I was thinking, if you don’t have any plans, we could go to the coast; get away for a while.”

Geralt didn’t want to think about any future without Yennefer, but on the other hand, a quiet time cutting down drowners and hiking along the coast didn’t sound so bad. He grunted and Jaskier bounced a little, Geralt able to see his smile out of the corner of his eye.

A few moments later, as Jaskier bid Borch, Téa and Véa goodbye, ‘farewell oh most beautiful ones’, Geralt reconsidered, thinking that a holiday by the sea with Jaskier sounded like the best idea they’d ever had.

“Jaskier.” He started once they’d left the others at the mouth of the cave. Jaskier hummed and looked at him curiously, so unaware of the ridiculous tangle of emotions coiled up in Geralt’s throat. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“Me too.” Jaskier answered softly, his eyes saying everything neither of them seemed able to express out loud. From Jaskier’s smile, Geralt guessed that his friend must have seen the same in his own eyes.

They started the trek down the mountain behind the jubilant dwarves. Jaskier took out his lute and began composing the Dragon Hunt song. Geralt listened to the trial and error, the sometimes methodical, sometimes inspired process and suppressed a smile.

He couldn’t wait for it to be finished so he could add it to the collection of Jaskier’s music in his head. So he could hold the song close to his heart.


End file.
